The Pieces of My Self

7 - The Profiler

ARTOIS MANGALOTTE

The Presidential Palace, 2 June 2174, Thursday

Why do my dreams end in nightmares? Why do the ghosts of Knightly and my granddaughter haunt my thoughts like succubi, sucking life from my presidency?

This morning when I was naked, entering the shower, I thought I saw in my mirror—for just a moment—the face of Henri Knightly, smiling.

Am I crazy? Or is Knightly the puppet master, controlling events in an unseen way?

I am surrounded by idiots. Thomas Argonon says top men at LESA are ferreting out the malicious avatar. Really? Top men? I feel like we're fighting smoke. I no longer have faith in LESA's abilities and will take matters into my own hands.

The Minnesota Analytical Technology for Enterprises, MATE, will at least give me another take on the problem. It's a gamble, but I have little to lose. When orthodox technology isn't sufficient, you fall back on data interpreters and psycho mumbo jumbo. In that respect, I guess I'm no different from the ignorant and unwashed who live in Scat Town. But at least I'm clear eyed about my prospects. Fingers crossed. Maybe magic will happen.

The authenticator blinked, awaiting my palm. I use it every day to sign edicts, appoint officials, and transfer funds from the sovereign account, but now I hesitated. This transaction starts a contract with a foreign company. I'm exposing myself and my problems. But Minnesota is not an enemy—at least not now. It could become an ally. These are the lies I tell myself.

I placed my right hand on the smooth glass and felt it burn—an unfamiliar experience. I almost jerked away, but a monotone voice said, "Keep your hand on the authenticator until the transaction is secure and complete. The discomfort will only last a few seconds."

I withdrew my palm when the frame around the authenticator stopped blinking.

A face materialized in my living room. The hologram floated with a ghostly translucence above a coffee table, glowing against a backdrop of windows and French doors. The visage was broad and craggy—a white man, perhaps in his eighties, with bushy eyebrows, thinning gray hair, a high forehead, and penetrating dark eyes.

"Good evening," it said. "Thank you for your business. You can call me Stanislav." There was an accent I couldn't place.

I stopped walking in circles and scratched my head. "A strange name for a synth program."

"My creators wanted a persona reminiscent of Stanislav Grof, the famed 21st century Czech psychiatrist. They say he had gravitas. Of course, I use many methods and theories, and combine them with purely data-driven science. For these sessions, you can give me any name, any appearance, any voice you like. Whatever makes you comfortable. Just gesture with your right hand. How shall I adjust?"

"I'm okay for now with the default parameters. I was just curious."

"And how shall I refer to you?"

"You can call me Sir."

"You think I don't know your true name, Sir?"

"I'm paying for anonymity. If you don't intend to respect that, I'll take my business elsewhere. No one must know about this."

"Yes, Sir. I see you have a full-service account with a range of extras, including an add-on for social analysis. Very unusual. And you are paying through transfers from a sovereign fund routed through multiple blind intermediaries, using a type of onion encryption. I see why you want anonymity. We very much value your business. These sessions can last as long as you like. How can I help you?"